The ghosts of Christmas crack
by chilibreath
Summary: A House, MD version of the classic A Christmas Carol. Beware the silly! The epilogues are up. Thanks for reading!
1. Chapter 1

**The ghosts of Christmas crack**

Dr. Gregory House is spending Christmas alone. He is sitting in front of his piano, playing a little Christmas ditty as his rat, Steve McQueen, sits quietly in his cage on the stuffed chair beside the piano. There is a large bottle of scotch on the piano bench next to House's butt, the rich golden liquid half-gone and going gone as House pauses to take another swig from the bottle.

While he was in the middle of his rendition of "Baby, Its Cold Outside", his phone rang. He didn't pay any attention to it, letting the answering machine pick it up.

"_If I don't pick up, it means that I'm not here, I don't care, or Jenna Jameson is giving me the best lap dance of my life. If you leave a message, don't expect me to care enough to call back. Merry Christmas._"

_Beep!_

"Very funny, House," Wilson's deep voice came out of the machine. "Just wanted to say Merry Christmas—and I'm coming over there to get my DVD player back tomorrow."

_Click!_

House paused in the middle of his piano playing in order to pop two Vicodin in his mouth, rubbing his bad thigh as he waited for the painkillers to do their magic. He turns his head to the window; the snow storm is getting stronger.

The cold was doing nothing for his leg pain except magnify it. He popped another Vicodin into his mouth and took another swig of Scotch to speed up its progress to his stomach.

Steve squeaked sharply, bobbing his head sideways. House turned to look at his furry companion.

"Relax, Steve," he slurred, raising the bottle of Scotch in salute. "I'm a doctor; I know what I'm doing."

The pain began to recede from his leg, and all was right in his world.

The phone rang again. While the message played, he checked his watch. The hands told him that the time is 11:32 PM.

"Uh—okay," Cameron's husky voice chimed from the answering machine after the beep. "Just wanted to greet you a Merry Christmas. Bye."

_Click!_

House cracked a goofy grin. It disappeared as he picked up his cane and stood up carefully, turning to the direction of the bathroom.

"Guard the fort, Steve," House muttered as he passed the rat's cage. "Merry Christmas."

* * *

While House took a quick, hot shower, the phone rang again for a third time.

After the beep, only silence could be heard from the machine for fifteen seconds before the unknown caller hung up.

* * *

The digital alarm clock let loose a shrill tone for fifteen seconds before its grouchy owner moved close enough to slam a hand down on it.

Lying on his stomach, House raised a heavy head and looked at the time. Something was wrong, yet his brain was still poaching in Scotch and Vicodin.

_11:59 PM._

"Stupid clock," House grumbled, pushing the offending timepiece off his night table. He winced when it hit the floor. He turned around to lie on his good side and placed a fluffy pillow on his head.

That was when he realized what the something was: _he didn't set the alarm_.

The moment he made this realization, someone yanked the comforter off his prone body. House pulled the pillow off his face when a pair of strong hands grabbed both his ankles and turned him to his left

"What the hell?" House roared.

His assailant pulled him until both his legs were off the bed before they were released. House sat up abruptly, the alcoholic haze of the past thirty minutes momentarily lifted. He was now holding his pillow like a club as he lifted blue eyes up to view the intruder.

It was Ezra Powell as House last saw him—alive. Ezra is wearing the hospital robe he died in, which pretty much wasn't doing much to improve the man's gaunt appearance. On the old man's wrists and ankles are what first appeared to be white fluffy bands.

"Good evening, Dr. House," Ezra said in a wheezy voice.

"Evening, Ezra," House said. "Nice muffs."

Ezra grinned—the effect made him more ghoulish.

"I'm not here for compliments, House," the old man wheezed. "I've been sent here to warn you that you're about to have company."

"Oh, wow," House said sarcastically, leaning backwards back into his bed. "Tell the 'visitors' to take it to the hospital—I'm not in the mood, its way past my bedtime and this is all a fucking side-effect of the pills and booze, which I intend to sleep off. Buzz off, Ezra"

House lay down on his back. When he turned his head to his left, he made a high-pitched yell and jumped; Ezra has somehow managed to end up on the other side of the bed!

"Listen to me, you ass," Ezra snarled, raising himself on his elbows and stretching out a long, thin arm out to House. "I've been sentenced to purgatory and manacled to the lab rats I sacrificed in the name of science. Look!"

House looked—what he thought was a white fluffy band turned out to be a stretched out white lab rat. The creature's entire body was wrapped around Ezra's delicate-looking wrist and clung on to its victim by sinking its teeth into the flesh.

"The only reason I wasn't sent to Hell was because I also treated the sick," Ezra said as he turned to get off House's four-poster bed. "They tell me I'm _this close_ to getting a one-way pass to Hell if I don't succeed in making a better person out of somebody who's kind of similar to me."

"So, what happened to Kevorkian?" House asked sarcastically. Ezra just smirked; there was no humor in that smirk.

"Believe me, I'd rather try saving him than you," Ezra wheezed. "But, here we are, and we have to make the best of it. Anyway, you're about to have three visitors tonight. They arrive within 25 minutes of each other; your first visitor arrives in ten minutes. For once in your miserable life, _listen_!"

With that, Ezra leaned forward, stretched out a wrinkly arm and pulled a whisker off House's face.

"Gah!"

House woke up with a start. He was lying in the middle of his bed. The comforter was still wrapped around him and the pillow was still on his face.

"I knew it was a dream," he grumbled as he pulled the pillow off his face.

House didn't notice that his alarm clock was not on his night table.

* * *

_Should I continue?_


	2. Chapter 2a

**2a---2b coming soon.

* * *

_12:10 AM_**

Dr. Gregory House is lying on his back, snoring softly. Occasionally, he puts a hand on his stomach to scratch softly around the area.

The butterfly that rested on his abdomen flitted away.

Suddenly, a soft voice began to sing a pop song, slightly off-key:

_To all your friends, you're delirious  
__So consumed, with all your doom  
__Trying hard to fill the emptiness  
The piece is gone left the puzzle undone  
That's the way it is…_

With every stanza, the voice became stronger, louder, and clearer. As the volume rose, bright white light began to penetrate through House's closed eyelids.

Annoyed, House sat up and opened his eyes.

He nearly went blind. The first thing that popped into his now-clear head was "_What the hell makes _that_ kind of light?!_"

He closed his eyes tightly, raised his right hand to eye level, and cautiously slit an eye open. The light ebbed a bit, enough for House to safely open his eyes, adjust to the moderated brightness, and look at the intruder who woke him up successfully by offending his ears with a lame excuse for a singing voice.

The first thing House noticed was the source of the bright white light—the gown.

The intruder was wearing a glowing white gown with long, puffed sleeves ending in fitted cuffs on the wrists. Diminutive hands were encased in gloves of a similar white, presently clasped around a familiar rodent. To his experienced eyes, House noted that the person wearing the gown is female, barely past her pre-teens. Looking up, blue eyes widened as they beheld the face.

House vaguely remembered Wilson saying something about giving her another year to live.

"Andie, right?" he muttered in surprise. "You—you have hair!"

The girl smiled widely, tilting her head to the side to show the doctor how long her curly red-gold locks are. Steve McQueen looked up at her, whiskers all a-twitching as Andie scratched him behind the ears.

"Nice—you have to tell me who gave you the new 'do one of these days," House murmured, carefully moving his legs to the side of the bed. "So—what brings you here? Can't find Dr. Chase's place? I have to warn you—he moved on after you were discharged."

Andie giggled, putting Steve on her left shoulder before walking towards the end of House's bed. She sat on one end of the large chest that was situated at the foot of the four-poster and turned to face House, putting her elbows on the bed frame and her chin on her upturned hands.

"My mom made this dress for my eleventh birthday; I died in my sleep ten days later."

House made a face. He almost forgot. "I'm sorry."

Andie lowered her eyes briefly before raising them back to House's. "It's not your fault—you did help me and give me some more time with Mom. I'm grateful to you because of that, and that's why I was chosen."

House looked away from her. "It's my job, Andie. And what do you mean you were 'chosen'?"

"Didn't Dr. Powell tell you?" Andie asked. Steve had moved from Andie's shoulder to the top of her head and squeaked. "I'm the first visitor; I'm here to take you back to your past."

_It can't be!_ House swallowed—"Sure—where'd you put the Deloriem then, kid?"

Andie tilted her head to the side. "Deloriem?"

"Never mind," House grumbled. _She's a ghost—shouldn't she know about the good ol' movies by now?_

"Sorry, Dr. House," Andie said brightly, hopping off the chest and walking around the foot of the bed to face him. "I didn't get to review all the movies made twenty years ago."

House stared incredulously at Andie. Andie smiled beatifically at him.

"Okay, we have to get going now. I have 20-something minutes to do my bit before the second visitor arrives. Let's go!"

Without warning, the Andie-phantom grabbed his hand firmly into her gloved one and pulled him towards the bedroom window. House tried and was unable to stop her—it was like trying to stop a moving car his hand was attached to—and could only yell, "Whoa, Nelly, I mean Andie!"

The windows opened of their own accord into the cold New Jersey winter. Andie was running for it, taking House with her whether he wanted to or not. He closed his eyes and waited for the inevitable explosion of glass, blood, pain, invectives and snow, but it never came.

And speaking of pain—his leg wasn't hurting him!

Andie read his mind again. "You've been given a temporary break from the pain, Dr. House," she explained. "You can open your eyes now. We're here."

"You could have let me get my shoes and jacket, you know," House grumbled, his eyes still closed. Why did he say that? No leg pain, former bald cancer kid with a head full of hair and the strength and speed of a rampaging bull—it's a messed-up dream, it has to be.

His analytical mind would accept no other conclusion.

_Fine—I'll play along. Maybe Jenna Jameson will finally give me that—_

House paused, remembering Andie was beside him. Oh, hell, it was just a dream.

––_lap dance._

"Ew!" Andie squealed.

"What?" House said innocently, opening his eyes to look at his companion. Even Steve McQueen––peeking at his master through thick, curly hair––seemed to share Andie's disgust. "You're just a bit player in a crazy, alcohol-infused dream. You'll live—"

A blur of red ran past them.

"––forever."

House stiffened, tracking the progress of the red blur until it reached a snow-covered barn.

It can't be…

"Uncle George's farm," he muttered as the figure in red paused before the barn doors, looking left and right before pushing one side of the barn door open, wide enough for the figure to get through. House began walking towards the barn. "He invited us here to spend Christmas with him when I was your age."

He didn't notice that he was cold—or walking on top of the snow.

"That was you, wasn't it?" Andie asked softly, tilting her head to the left. Steve squeaked as he took a bit of curl into his paws and nibbled a little of her hair.

"Didn't want to show up at breakfast," House replied gruffly as they approached the barn doors. The door the boy went through opened silently on its own. It closed on its own after House and Andie stepped inside.

As they walked past the stalls where the horses were kept, Andie continued, "It's Christmas morning, Dr. House. What were you trying to avoid?"

"Reindeer steaks—they told me they caught Rudolph on the roof the night before; he gave himself away with his nose," House grumbled.

Without warning, a shot of pain coursed through his thigh, making House howl in pain and lose his balance. He reached a stall door in time, bracing himself on it until the pain ebbed away. "What the hell was that?!" he yelled. It was already obvious to him that aside from Andie and his rat, no one would have heard his outburst.

Andie and Steve were frowning at him. "Don't look at me—I'm not the one lying."

"What?!"

Andie sighed in exasperation, as though it should have been obvious by now. "Remember me telling you about the temporary break from the pain, Dr. House? Well, your leg will hurt if you don't take our questions seriously."

House stared at Andie as though the girl was out of her mind. _Actually, between the two of us, I'm the most likely candidate for the straightjacket._

"So, this is the afterlife's version of the Spanish Inquisition, huh?"

Andie shrugged.

"Great." House raised himself up carefully, testing his weight on his bad leg before he placed all his weight on it. He experimentally walked three steps towards Andie before he bent down until their eyes were level with each other.

"I didn't want to move again," he said.

Andie smiled. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"

"Like getting rid of my beard with Cuddy's tweezers," House replied through his teeth.

The barn doors opened. A tall, sparse figure entered the structure and walked towards them. House straightened up and turned around to look at the newcomer.

The man was as tall as House, but much skinnier, even with the added layers. As the light from the upper side windows of the barn hit the man's head, it showed a long, gaunt face, framed on the sides with wild, bushy sideburns tinged a premature gray. There is a large wooden box tucked under his arm.

"Greg?" he called out in a soothing, deep voice. "I know you're in here, boy. Come on out—you're worrying your mother half to death."

A melodramatic "I'm not going!" was issued from one of the stalls behind House and Andie. Uncle George went straight through them and went to a stall three meters away. House and Andie followed him.

In the leftmost corner of the straw-laden stall was a skinny colt, its inky blackness marred by the white cast on its right hind leg. Behind the colt was an eleven-year-old Greg, rubbing a hand across the creature's neck. The boy did not look up, even as the older man opened the stall door and entered the cramp quarters. After shutting the door behind him, Uncle George placed the box on the floor before he leaned on the door and crossed his arms, staring down at his nephew.

"I'm not going," Greg repeated in a low mutter.

"Why the hell not?" Uncle George replied. There was no malice behind that question, just curiosity. "You can't stay here, Greg, and Crisco can't come with you."

"_Crisco_?" Andie snorted, giggling madly.

"He ate an entire tub of lard while no one was looking," House said as he glared down at her. "The idiot pony had it coming when Aunt Martha asked me to name him."

"And how did you know the pony did it?" Andie asked him.

"I––might've snuck a tub out to experiment on something in the barn when no one was looking."

"You know your folks won't let me keep you here, Greg," Uncle George said, "especially that piece of work my sister married. God knows why he doesn't like me…"

Greg snorted, trying hard not to smile as he continued to run his hand down Crisco's glossy black mane.

"But, no lawyer or judge in Canada will let me keep you here, kiddo," Uncle George continued. "And your mother likes you too much."

"I'll write to her everyday!" Greg cried, looking up at his uncle with wide, hopeful blue eyes. "I'll concentrate on my studies; I always get straight A's! And I'll help you around the farm and stuff and––"

"No," Uncle George interrupted.

The past and present Greg House bowed their heads.

But Uncle George wasn't finished yet.

"Believe it or not, your mother and I don't like this moving around business—no stability for a growing boy. But it's part of your dad's job, and I'm still amazed he hasn't started World War III yet. Other than that, how many kids do you know who's traveled around the world, huh? Who's gonna tell me and Aunt Martha about the pyramids and camels in Egypt, eh? Your Aunt Martha, she needs fuel to brag about her globe-trotting nephew to the Wakemans for the upcoming fair."

Uncle George bent down and picked up the box from the floor.

"Here, boy—take this with you."

Greg stood up and walked towards the older man, taking the box from him. It looked like an old-fashioned tool box. Curious, the boy looked up at his uncle.

"Put some good stuff in it, wherever you go. That's my Christmas present for you, kid."

Greg grinned and impulsively hugged Uncle George, who looked awkward and then patted Greg's curly-haired head.

"Still want to stay here, brat?"

"No sir."

"Good—someone in your family has to take care of my sister."

"Should've taken care of him, too," House muttered as he saw his younger self run towards the barn doors, holding the large box to his chest. "Uncle George died in a hit-and-run when I was fourteen."

"Time to go, Dr. House," Andie said softly, taking his large hand into hers.

* * *

_Reviews, please. I hear it helps with the writer's block..._


	3. Chapter 2b

**2b

* * *

Andie and House walked towards the barn doors, leaving Uncle George standing in the empty stall tending to Crisco the colt.**

Andie opened the door and led her charge through it. Searing white light had House momentarily blinded; he covered his eyes until the light ebbed away.

* * *

"Good evening, Dr. Greg," a soft, warble of a voice murmured.

House opened his eyes.

House and Andie were standing in a sad-looking navy-colored hospital room. Five empty beds lined one wall, the sheets pulled taught over the mattresses. Only the bed at the end of the room was occupied; the bed next to it had to be moved away from it in order to make space for the life support system and three IV poles keeping the tiny patient stable. Approaching this bed was a tall man wearing a white doctor's coat and a grim expression on his clean-shaven, familiar face. His red-and-yellow sneakers barely made a sound as he walked fluidly across the immaculate white floor of the room.

"You look okay when you don't have a beard, Dr. House," Andie said, walking behind the cane-free, pain-free Dr. House and sitting on the empty hospital bed next to the patient. Looking up, Andie continued, "You do have weird hair. Did you have it curled in a salon?"

The caneless, temporarily pain-free Dr. House replied derisively, "That's _natural_, tiny Andie. Never heard the nurses complaining about it."

He didn't elaborate further as he ran a hand over his bald spot. Moving behind his younger self, House made a small frown. Was it only 12 years ago that he had the kind of hair that would give Chase and Wilson a run for their barbershop money?

Then he looked over the other guy's shoulder—which should make it _his_ shoulder—and saw the patient. "Esther," he said softly.

The woman was small, with a thick thatch of graying black hair and a set of warm brown eyes framed with deep crow's feet and pale skin. She seemed to be shrinking as she lay helplessly on the bed, what with the bulky medical equipment surrounding her and everything. Just as Dr. Greg and the two phantoms behind him were looking at her, it was evident that she was running out of time.

"Merry Christmas, Esther," Dr. Greg said gruffly, pulling out a bottle of grape juice and a couple of plastic cups. Esther smiled up at him through her oxygen mask.

"You're going romantic on me, Dr. Greg," she whispered as Dr. Greg opened the bottle and poured the sparkling purple liquid into the cups. He placed one cup on the portable table and moved closer to Esther, helping her drink her share of the stuff until she signaled for him to stop.

"Thank you, dear," she said, lying back on the bed in happiness.

Dr. Greg didn't smile, choosing to down his drink in one gulp.

"I won't be able to see Dick Clark drop the ball this year, Dr. Greg," Esther said.

"She doesn't sound sad or angry," Andie murmured, looking up at House, who had sat next to her on the bed during the alcohol consumption.

"She already knew," House replied, rubbing a hand over his eyes. In front of them, Dr. Greg did the same thing. "At the time, we tried every test known to us. Every test came up negative or inconclusive, and each time, Esther coughed up another symptom. Her family was already preparing her funeral—their gift to her this Christmas."

The last six words were accompanied by a snarl.

"We'll see about that, Esther," Dr. Greg replied softly.

"It's Christmas, dear," Esther said. Her eyelids were fluttering—she was getting sleepy. "You should be out celebrating, kiss a nice girl under the mistletoe, spend time with your family. Anything is better than keeping this old thing company."

Dr. Greg shrugged. "Thought you might need company yourself—where's your family?"

"I told them to go home and rest, have fun," Esther said almost imperceptibly. She was slipping away. "They shouldn't be here—doesn't make a fun Christmas."

Tears began to slip down her withered cheeks. Dr. Greg looked uncomfortable—it looked like he wanted to bolt.

Both Dr. Greg and his older phantom self suddenly froze, staring straight at Esther's heart monitor seconds before a red dot began to blip wildly.

Andie took House's hand and walked through the horde of nurses and interns running straight to Esther's bed.

* * *

Their next destination was a Christmas party at a fancy-looking hotel. Someone was playing a jovial rendition of a jazz tune on a piano as the murmurs of hundreds of people wafted over and up for the chandeliers in the large ballroom.

"Oh no!" House groaned. He turned to Andie, who suddenly left his side to check out the buffet table. Steve was settled on top of her head, his tail twitching in anticipation.

"Dr. House," a familiar voice rang from his left. "Didn't know you played."

House closed his eyes, breathed in, and turned left to look at the black grand piano set on an elevated stage. A slim form sheathed in a slinky red number is leaning to one side of the instrument, looking on as the piano player slowed down his playing before tinkling some random notes and expertly shifting to a new tune.

House couldn't help it; he walked slowly towards the piano.

The piano player in the tuxedo replied, "Hard knock life, Miss—"

A pair of pickled doctors waltzed past phantom-House; he instinctively jumped back to avoid a collision before remembering that he was defying all the known laws of physics.

"—I had to pay my way through med school, hookers, smokes, the whole nine yards."

The red hot number chuckled throatily. "Call me Stacy."

Dr. House looked up from his piano playing and said, "My lawyer told me not to give away too much information to the sniper who colored my ass purple, but I will give you leave to call me Purple Sweet Cheeks."

Stacy chuckled. "You'll never forgive me for winning in that paintball tournament, are you, _Sweet Cheeks_?"

"Can you shout out the last part orgasmically? It'll make me feel _so_ much better!"

"Orgas-mi-ca-wha?" Andie piped up beside phantom-House. He saw that his guide and his rat were eating pigs-in-a-blanket; Andie was holding a plate filled with food. Seeing his expression, Andie held up the plate to House.

"Thanks," he said, picking up a weiner and popped it into his mouth. Dr. House had stopped playing, signaling to the piano player actually hired for this event before walking away with Stacy.

"She became your girlfriend, right?" Andie said, following the handsome couple walking for the bar.

House snatched a chocolate-covered bonbon from the plate before answering, "Only after the New Year's—we didn't see each other after this shindig. I went back to New Jersey and she went to wherever it was she was practicing at. Only got together when the hospital hired her as the legal counsel."

Dr. House and Stacy, drinks in hand, were moving to the glass doors leading to the hotel's garden. Andie and phantom-House followed them.

* * *

"Dammit!"

Andie jumped and looked up at her companion. "What?"

"I hate this jumping forward thing," House grumbled, shaking his head. "Weren't we following me and Stacy in the hotel a moment ago?"

"Oh, that," Andie replied, licking the chocolate off her satiny gloves. The glove was stained brown for a few moments before the color began to fade to oblivion. "Sorry—had to move it on."

House didn't ask where Andie placed the plate—or what happened to the mountain of pilfered food. Steve looked like an inflated, gray balloon on Andie's right shoulder. He looked sleepy.

The scenery changed. Andie and House were walking at the snow-covered University campus near the Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. It looked eerie and lovely at the same time; the moon made the snow-topped walkway shimmer like silver. Four figures were running up the stairs behind House and Andie.

"I win!" Dr. House gasped, his breaths coming out in white puffs. He raised his arms up and waved them up and down. Three people groaned audibly below him.

"No fair!" Stacy wheezed, leaning on the banister of the walkway as she composed herself. "You cheated!"

"And you have longer legs!" cried the third contestant, taking her place behind Stacy to get her wind back. A younger, slightly chubbier Dr. Cuddy pushed the hair off her pink face, taking in a deep, exaggerated breath. "Oh, stop that, House! No one wants to see your Rocky imitation!"

"I'm a winner, baby!" Dr. House said triumphantly, giving the frosty air several quick, short jabs with his fists before turning his back to them and wagged his ass left to right. He had to jump away when Stacy lunged forward to slap it.

"Some—bo—dy—help—me!" Wilson cried out below them. He trudged up carefully behind Cuddy, holding his waist like his guts were about to spill out from an imaginary hole there. "I'm—going—to—have—a—heart—at—tack!"

"Stop being a baby, Wilson," Dr. House cried, pulling Stacy up against his long, lean frame. "C'mon, baby—let's ditch these amateurs and find a mistletoe to shag under."

Stacy laughed, trying half-heartedly to get back to Cuddy and Wilson, who were still trying to catch their breath. "We can't leave them there, Greg!"

Dr. House looked down at Stacy in pretend shock. "You want to—"

He wagged his eyebrows suggestively at her.

"_No_!" Stacy cried out, giggling madly as Dr. House tried to sneak a kiss on her bright red lips.

"Wow, Dr. House," Andie said, tilting her head to the side and smiling dreamily at the happy couple. "You were _smiling_!"

House snorted. "Don't call the Vatican yet, kid."

"And you're tickling her," Andie continued, peering out as the couple stopped under a snow-covered tree. "And—ew! Tongue!" Andie made an exaggerated face of disgust.

"This from the girl who coerced a grown Australian to mooch her on the mouth," House muttered, rolling his eyes.

However, like Andie, he couldn't keep his eyes off the couple in front of them. "Its not going to last," House grumbled.

Andie nodded, walking away from the kissing duo. "You got sick yourself—and your girlfriend had to make a decision…"

"And then she left me," House finished quietly, turning around to follow Andie.

The scenery changed as House and Stacy stopped to look deep into each other's eyes.

* * *

Someone was ringing a doorbell.

Something glass broke on wood. "Go away!"

House blinked.

"We're home, Dr. House," Andie said softly. And so they were.

"What a mess!" Andie said, stepping aside to avoid an unsteady pile of books. Steve was jolted out of his nap and almost off the shoulder he was slumped over as Andie jumped nimbly up over a pile of dirty shirts.

"It's a living," House said. He didn't want to move into the living room. He didn't have to move there to know that it would be littered with empty bottles of Scotch and painkillers, papers, and smelly boxes of Chinese take-out.

A key clicked somewhere and the front door creaked open.

"Holy shit!" Wilson yelled before slamming the door shut. "House—are you in here? Do I need to call the FBI to find you?"

"Not here!" came the reply—it was coming from the bedroom behind House.

"Right," Wilson said sardonically, gingerly stepping on some random clean spots within the living room. "Jeez, it's cold!"

Wilson suddenly appeared in the hallway in front of phantom-House. He still wore his longcoat and bright maroon scarf around his neck; snowflakes covered his tousled brown hair and shoulders, which he brushed off him with one of his gloved hands. His other hand held a large brown paper bag. Wilson walked through phantom-House and approached the bedroom.

House reluctantly followed his friend into his bedroom—or rather, the doorway to his bedroom. Wilson blocked the entryway, standing stock-still in shock and disgust.

"Jesus Christ!" he gasped, running another hand through his messed-up hair.

"Didn't I tell you already I wasn't here?" a slurred, gruff voice emanated from the king-sized bed. "And shouldn't you be Catholic to use His name in vain?"

Andie and Steve were already inside the room, standing on the other side of the bed and mirroring Wilson's look of disgust and horror.

This version of Gregory House was slumped on the side of the bed nearest the doorway. The number of liquor bottles and small orange plastic bottles were more concentrated here. The pajama-wearing man lying on the bed was nearly emaciated, ghastly pale, and had a full growth of beard. He had propped his right leg up on a very tall pile of pillows; against the backdrop of gray pajama pants was a dry, dark red stain that covered up the thigh area.

"Got the Grizzly Adams look going for me here," phantom-House murmured.

"When was the last time you took a bath then, Dr. House?" Andie whispered in horror. Steve squeaked in similar protest.

Phantom-House shrugged. "It was cold!"

Wilson recovered instantly, walking to the prone man and whipping out a tiny flashlight from his coat.

"You opened up your wound!" Wilson snarled, checking Dr. House's pupils. Dr. House stretched out an arm and pushed the flashlight away from his face before struggling to raise himself up from the bed.

"That's not blood, Wilson," the man slurred. He managed to raise himself up into a sitting position, rubbing his eyes with his right hand before looking up at Wilson. "Had an accident with the tomato juice; it didn't agree with me, so I showed it who's the boss and tossed it around somewhere."

Wilson winced in disgust. "You're a pig, House."

"Merry Christmas to you then," the older man replied.

"I'd ask how you were holding up since—"

"Don't," Dr. House growled, giving his friend a warning glance. Wilson sighed.

After a moment of silence between the men, House looked down, around his room, then at the dark stain on his pants. "Happy holidays, huh?"

Wilson snorted in agreement.

House continued, pushing himself awkwardly up on his haunches. "Shouldn't you be spending time with the new missus—what's her name—Junie?"

"_Julie_," Wilson said in vexation, looking around himself before bending over and picking up a cane. "Told her I'll be at the hospital tonight; she understood. Not the first time."

House raised an eyebrow at Wilson. "Barely a year into your marriage, and you're already lying."

"What marriage doesn't have little white lies?" Wilson asked, handing the cane to House. "Now, make that lie worthwhile by getting up off your lazy ass and helping me in cleaning up this mess. I'm not sharing the food with you until all the bottles and boxes and dead things in this hole are disposed of—including the ones hiding in your beard."

"Aw, dad!" House whined pathetically. "Its Christmas eve! I'm an invalid!"

"Yeah right," Wilson chuckled, shaking his head as he removed his coat and scarf before rolling up his sleeves. "If you can summon up the energy to make this much mess all throughout your apartment, you can certainly pick up after yourself."

"You're evil."

"To deal with you, I have to be."

Andie looked awestruck at Wilson. "Wow."

"I know," House shrugged as he observed his funky-looking self hobbling painfully on his cane to his closet. "Beneath that cuddly exterior, Wilson's really a descendant of Genghis Khan."

Andie rolled her eyes, taking Steve from her shoulder to cuddle and stroke.

"I noticed something, Dr. House," she said after real-life House left the uncluttered bedroom with Wilson, holding a large garbage bag between them. "You weren't as nasty then as you are now. And even when you were mean to Dr. Wilson, he didn't leave you, and you kind of listened to him eventually."

"Didn't you hear him, kid? He was holding the food hostage!"

His leg began to ache.

"I was kidding, I was kidding!" he cried. "You obviously can't take a joke."

"No—just doesn't like your sarcasm," Andie responded serenely. Beyond the bedroom door, Dr. House and Wilson were heard trudging through the hallway for the living room.

"Look," House muttered, hobbling painfully to his bed and carefully sitting himself down on it. "I've gone through things that made me into who I am. Sure, I've had some good moments here and there, but even those didn't turn me into a fluffy person. Even if Stacy hadn't left weeks before _this_ particular Christmas, she'd have left me eventually. Only reason I put up with Wilson is because he's—he's Wilson!"

House stopped to get his air back and to rub his aching thigh. Andie kept looking down at him.

House settled down on the bed. "Go back and tell Ezra I haven't _changed_. Nothing will make me turn into Cameron."

Andie raised an eyebrow at House.

"Very well," she said softly. "Its 12:30 AM, Dr. House. My time with you is almost up. I'll take Steve back to his cage and be on my way. The next visitor arrives in five minutes."

With that, Andie leaned over House and kissed the tip of his nose.

* * *

"Ah!"

House was back in his bed. He turned around to look at his digital alarm clock, but the gadget wasn't on top of his night table. Muttering, he eased himself up and limped towards the clock, which was lying upside down on the floor next to the night table.

He checked the time. It was 12:31 AM.

* * *

_How am I doing so far?_


	4. Chapter 3a

**3a---the second visitor

* * *

Steve McQueen was dozing fitfully under a pile of wood shavings. His cage was still in the living room where House left him about an hour or so ago. It was not littered with empty Chinese take-out cartons or fallen bottles of liquor—it was just as he left it when he locked up for the night: dark, undecorated, partially littered with books and medical journals, and his jacket draped on the couch where Steve's cage is situated.**

Satisfied, House shuffled back to his bedroom. _It was just a dream.

* * *

_

_12:35 AM_

The mouthwatering scent of steak assailed House's nostrils. Following this tantalizing aroma was a lip smacking bouquet of assorted appetizers and main courses.

House opened his eyes and cracked a wide smile.

"Cameron wearing only an apron, Cameron wearing only an apron," he muttered over and over again as he carefully rolled off his bed and stuck his feet into brown slippers. He tentatively stood up, bracing himself on the corner of the bed for support. Satisfied that the pain didn't manifest itself as usual, he strode happily to the door, continuing muttering his mantra, "Cameron wearing only an apron, Cameron wearing only an apron…"

He opened the door—and stared.

"Definitely dreaming here," he said.

The wall opposite his bedroom door was bedecked with Christmas wreaths spaced evenly apart. The hallway from his bathroom to his living room was bathed in a warm golden glow; the light and scent of food seemed to be coming from his living room.

Padding softly on the wooden floor, House went to his living room, stopped—and wondered if he could just keep on sleeping for the rest of his life.

Taking the place of his grand piano near the windows was one of the biggest flat-screen, wide-screen television sets he had ever seen. The thing seemed to be suspended from the ceiling—House didn't care if the thing was floating, it was in _his_ place! Next to the giant TV was an equally imposing white Christmas tree, decorated with giant, multi-colored Christmas balls and silver tinsel. Looking around, he realized that his furniture and bookcases were gone. Taking its place was a giant rectangular table smack in the middle of the room, laden with the dishes that he was able to smell from his bedroom: steak, roasted turkey, apple pie and—Heavens to Betsy!—a towering pile of James Wilson's famous Macadamia nut pancakes. Before the table—near the entryway where House was presently ogling—was a brand new giant sofa made of some sinfully soft black leather. Steve McQueen was perched on the back of this sofa, nibbling on a piece of pancake.

House closed his mouth shut and stepped forward. Something made him look down—the floor was now covered in claret-colored shag carpeting.

A deep, familiar voice cut through House's floor inspection, "Nice, eh?"

House looked up; he traced the source of the deep voice beyond the over-laden table to his fireplace. He hadn't seen the stranger during his jaw-dropping first look at his newly redecorated living room—but this was no stranger to him. Only thing strange about this visitor was the lack of gray in his black hair and the shiny, dark red robe he was wearing over a tuxedo.

Gabe raised his arms and turned around before walking towards the table. "Whaddaya think, Dr. House? Do I look snazzy or what?!"

House recovered; he walked slowly towards the table and picked up a treat speared on a toothpick: it was a chicken liver wrapped in a bacon strip, coated with melted sugar. He popped this into his mouth before saying, "You did it for me or for you?"

Gabe dropped his arms and gave House a calculating look. House raised up his hands in capitulation, the toothpick set at an angle in his mouth.

Gabe just picked up two empty plates from nowhere and handed one of them to House. "Dig in," he said simply.

* * *

After filling his plate, House walked over to Gabe, who was now seated on the sofa, his plate placed safely on his lap and a can of cold beer on a built-in cup holder on the armrest next to him. It also turned out that the sofa had built-in footrests; Gabe aimed a gray remote control in House's direction that activated both the footrest and the cup holder before giving Steve a piece of baguette.

Steve squeaked in approval.

"You're spoiling my rat," House said bluntly.

Gabe looked at Steve speculatively before transferring his gaze at his human. "He looked hungry," he said matter-of-factly.

House looked at Steve. "You'll ruin your figure; I'll have to find you a maze where you can shed the excess Christmas poundage. Chase will never appreciate a fat rat."

Steve didn't look like he cared; after devouring the baguette, he looked expectantly at Gabe, twitching his whiskers for emphasis. Gabe relented by giving the rodent a sliver of apple pie.

"All right," Gabe muttered through a mouthful of steak and mashed potatoes; he reached behind him and extracted another remote control. This one was long, silver, and shiny; Gabe looked down appreciatively at the thing before aiming it at the gigantic television.

The screen flickered to life, showing the occupants of the room nothing but static.

House looked at Gabe, who looked like he had never seen a television that big before. But, then again—

"I forgot to turn off the lights, ok?" Gabe grumbled, clapping his hands sharply. The room immediately darkened before Gabe pointed the silver remote control at the television again.

A feeling of dread settled inside House. "Please tell me we're going to watch porn."

"Next time, Dr. House," Gabe said, "Right now, I have some real-time reels to show you. Good stuff—better than _The Bachelor_ crap I watched while Andie showed you around."

House froze in mid-bite; the slice of apple pie he was about to shoot into his mouth dropped back onto his plate with a loud _plop_!

"Spoil my after-dinner dinner, why don't you?" House growled. He set his plate on the middle of the sofa and prepared to leave…but he couldn't.

And the pain returned to his leg.

"GARRRGH!!!"

Gabe looked smug as he quietly tipped his can of beer to his lips.

"Still think this is a dream, Dr. House?" he asked calmly. "If you were in that much pain, wouldn't you have woken up right about now—or long before, when you tried to fool Andie with that fib about Reindeer steaks?"

House leaned on the backrest of the couch, holding onto his bad thigh. _No, no, no, no, no…_

"_Yes_," Gabe said quietly, wiping his mouth with a napkin before looking at House. "I still have the power to annoy you, Dr. House. Added to that, I now have the power to keep your ass in your seat and watch this with me."

Gabe leaned over his armrest and produced a bag of popcorn; the bag was roughly the size of a medium-sized bucket. Looking thoughtfully at the food-laden table before them, Gabe whipped out the silver remote and aimed it at the table. He pressed a button several times; the table began to disappear before them until it vanished completely.

Gabe looked at the remote with a quizzical expression on his face. "It's going to take a while to master that feature," he said before turning his attention to his grouchy seatmate. "You ready, tough guy?"

House didn't answer immediately. His head leaned back, he stared at the pristine, cream-colored ceiling before him as he said, "I'm still hallucinating—that's right—I'm hallucinating. Only explanation…"

Gabe sighed as he whipped out the silver remote control again.

House's side of the sofa suddenly lurched a few degrees until House was sitting up painfully straight. Since he couldn't get up, he was effectively trapped to his seat. He scowled at Gabe, who hefted the giant bag of popcorn under his nose.

"You leave me no choice, Dr. House," Gabe said gruffly. He now pointed the remote control to the giant television set and pressed a button. The screen immediately flashed to a familiar hallway. From a distance, a familiar clicking could be heard.

"I'm a businessman, Dr. House," Gabe said as he peered down his nose at the remote control. "I don't have time for slackers or wimps—"

Something snapped in House—_Who's he calling a wimp?_

"—or drunks." Gabe's eyes pored over the gadget until he found what he was looking for. "I didn't take up this assignment to waste my afterlife. I've been informed that you might try to bolt, so I've been given additional _annoying_ powers. You've been warned."

Gabe pressed a button on the remote. The sofa began to move towards the TV screen at the speed of a scooter at medium speed.

"What the hell—we're going to crash into the TV!" House yelled. "It's a _fucking, 6-foot wide, flat-screen TV_! Are you insane?!"

"Nope," Gabe said calmly, placing the remote control on his armrest, his hand on top keeping it in place, gazing calmly outward as the sofa advanced to the TV screen.

* * *

As the bright light faded away, House carefully opened his eyes—and patted himself to make sure that he didn't have any bits of television on his person.

"Did you enjoy the ride, Dr. House?" Gabe asked beside him. House turned his head and saw Gabe looking at him with a look of smugness; he had Steve McQueen in the palm of his hand, belly side up, the free hand scratching him on the stomach.

House was about to say something when he noticed two things: one, the sofa was still moving forward. Two, heading in their direction was a man pushing a wheelchair with a pregnant woman on it.

"Look out!" he yelled, but it was too late. He braced himself for impact and a lawsuit—but nothing happened.

Gabe chuckled heartily as House unraveled and peered over the sofa at the relatively unharmed man pushing the wheelchair with the pregnant woman on it.

"Have you learned _nothing_? They can't see, hear, or feel us, Dr. House!" Gabe roared. They were reaching a sort of intersection now; on Gabe's side was a nun walking towards them.

"HEY SISTER!" Gabe yelled at the top of his lungs, making Steve jump from his hand and scoot towards House's stomach and onto his shoulder. "SISTER! YOUR HOSE IS SLIPPING! YOUR UNMENTIONABLES ARE COMING UP NEXT!"

The nun was blessedly oblivious to Gabe's raucous ranting, walking serenely on her way to the other direction. Gabe settled back on the couch and grinned at House. "I feel so _alive_!"

House stared noiselessly at Gabe for a moment before looking around him and spotting Nurse Brenda approaching them. Timing the moment carefully, House reached out and sharply pinched Brenda's butt just as she was about to turn right. The austere nurse let out a sharp yelp and a flurry of paperwork went flying out of her hands.

House pumped his fist into the air as Brenda started swearing a blue streak, looking around for the culprit.

"So, where are you taking me, Devious Gabe?" House asked after he winded down. Steve's whiskers were tickling his neck.

Gabe pointed in front of them. House followed the direction of his gaze and spotted a familiar, curvaceous figure leaning on a wall. "Cuddy? You cooked up a feast, a jumbotron, and the fantastic moving sofa to see _Cuddy_?" House said in distress.

Gabe raised an eyebrow at his appalled seatmate. "You don't like her?"

House made a wild gesture in the air as he replied, "Well, her _assets_ are something to behold, but overall I want to avoid her. She keeps giving me clinic duties and making me treat sick people."

Gabe snorted, "Well, that is your job, _Doctor_ House."

The sofa went past Cuddy, turned a 45-degree angle and stopped. Gabe cocked his head and said softly, "She looks sad."

House looked—Cuddy did look woeful. She was woeful and fixated at a scene before her. Turning to look, House realized that she was staring inside a patient's room: a family consisting of two sets of grandparents, the father, and an identical set of toddlers, and a mother cradling the newest arrival to the little family. Before he could comment, Cuddy's cell phone rang.

Cuddy retrieved it from her coat. "Cuddy—uh, hi Ruthie. Happy Hanukah to you too—yeah, I really couldn't make it this year, sorry." Cuddy paused and grimaced for a minute before continuing, "Yeah, busy time at the hospital—_yes_, I'm sorry I didn't get to meet that guy you wanted to set me up with, just like the last time you tried to—ugh, _no_, I did not do anything to make the last guy _gay_!" Cuddy paused again, raising a hand to rub her forehead. Then she raised her head up and looked around, looking desperate for something. "Uh, look, Ruthie, I'm sorry—gotta check up on—a—patient! Yes!—doctor stuff, job never done, you know the drill!"

She paused again—this time, she looked up at the ceiling and rolled her eyes. "Gee, thanks for pointing that out—goodbye!"

Cuddy slammed her phone shut. She walked to her right, past the room with the happy reunion—the sofa began to move, following Cuddy.

Gabe was rubbing his chin. "Between you giving her a miserable time and her nagging sister, I'm surprised Dr. Cuddy hadn't thrown in the towel yet."

House shrugged. "I've trained her well, Abe—she'd never make to where she is now if it wasn't for me! She's Tyson and I'm Don King!"

Gabe looked at House's hair—"Minus the hair, and then some."

"Bite me."

The sofa followed Cuddy into the ladies' room, stopping just in front of the row of stalls. The men could hear someone sobbing in one of them.

"Stop it, Lisa!" Cuddy snarled from behind one of the stall doors. "Stop it! House was right—I don't need to be a mother. I'm okay where I'm at—I don't need anything else!"

Gabe gave House a look. House pointedly ignored him.

Then they heard a low moan. "But it hurts," Cuddy whispered. "It hurts…"

"Wow," Gabe said as they heard someone blowing their nose. "Nice piece of advice there, Dr. Phil. Way to go. Whoopee."

House remained impassive in his seat. "She's the Dean of Medicine," he muttered, staring as Cuddy left the stall and washed her face in one of the sinks. "She's given her time and attention to this hospital—where's she going to get the attention and strength to raise a kid?"

Gabe shrugged. "Feeling guilty, Dr. House?"

"Concerned," House admitted. "I've gotten used to her—do you have any idea how long it took me to charm the pants off her?"

Gabe shook his head, raising the remote control; the sofa turned around and took them out of there.

* * *

Instead of taking them to the familiar hallways of PPTH, the sofa had taken them to an ancient building in a dangerous-looking area in the city. A couple of homeless men, holding each other up and huddling together under a long coat from the cold, stumbled towards the stained, rotting door and knocked loudly on it.

To House's surprise, the door was opened by Wilson.

"Hurry up, gentlemen!" Wilson said cheerfully, ushering the raggedy men inside. Wilson poked his head out and looked around him before getting back inside, closing the door behind him.

"What the hell is Wilson doing there?" House said in shock.

"Wanna take a look-see?" Gabe asked. House nodded vigorously.

The sofa moved forward, taking House and Gabe inside the building. After adjusting from the unsettling experience of going through a brick wall, House blinked and looked around him.

It was soup kitchen. Around fifty homeless people were packed inside a cafeteria-like set-up. Tables and benches took up most of the space, and each one was taken up by seven or eight people, huddled over their hot meals as they tried to absorb the heat and the food at the same time. Beyond this area was a very long line of dispossessed people. At the end of the line was Dr. James Wilson, who herded the newcomers to the end of the line with a couple of blankets and a tray for each man.

He left them briefly and returned promptly, holding two steaming mugs for each man.

"Here you go, fellas," Wilson said cheerfully, handing a mug to each man. The men murmured their thanks and drank the hot tea dutifully. "This ought to hold you until you reach the food."

"Thanks doc," the shorter of the two said, raising his mug to Wilson before taking a careful swig from it.

Wilson looked expectantly at the taller of the two men. The tall man looked down at the handsome doctor and shook his head sadly.

"Sorry Jim," he said in a waspish voice. "Honest to God, I looked ev'rywheres. Haven't seen him since Black Friday, when we were hanging down at the park sharing homemade smokes and stuff."

"Did you tell him—tell him I was looking for him?" Wilson asked, but the tall guy shook his head.

"I did. Then I told him how to get to this place and when you'd be here. He promised me and Bob here that he'll come tonight," the tall guy said; his companion nodded behind his mug. Tall guy took a quick look around the place before continuing mournfully, "Guess he got lost."

Wilson forced a smile. "Thanks, Hank."

"I tried, Jim—I'm sorry."

Wilson brushed it off.

From the comfort of the sofa that trapped his ass, House shook his head. "He's still looking for his brother; the one who went homeless."

He looked up, tracing Wilson's path from the end of the line to the end of the food chain. "He hasn't lost hope."

"Good for him," Gabe said admiringly. "And?"

"And what?" House challenged. Gabe gave him a look.

House pressed his lips tightly together for all of fifteen seconds.

"He couldn't give up on me, either."

* * *

_Any thoughts? I need constructive input, or the Muses pulls the plug!_


	5. Chapter 3b

**3b**

**A/N: This has turned into a 3-parter. 3c will come along soon. The reviews are heartening... :-)

* * *

**

"_He couldn't give up on me, either."_

House leaned forward as Wilson took his place behind the colossal soup pot and began ladling a steaming white broth into plain white bowls. "Idiot."

Gabe looked at House as he pushed a few buttons on the silver remote. The sofa began to move towards the other end of the line. "I can certainly understand the short-sightedness when he decided to make a friend out of you, but that's harsh, Doc."

House leaned back onto his side of the sofa and picked a handful of popcorn from the pail-sized bag that sat between them. "Since when have I ever been—uh, Gabe?"

"Hmm—what?" Gabe asked as he pressed some more buttons on the remote. The sofa settled a meter away from Wilson ladling chicken soup into the bowl of a toothless, grizzled elderly black man wearing a suspiciously familiar jacket. After successfully parking the sofa to the wall, Gabe turned to his former doctor.

The doctor was looking wide-eyed at the top of his ex-patient's head. "Your hair spontaneously turned a shade whiter," House mumbled, "while you were driving the sofa."

"Woah boy," Gabe said worriedly. He leaned over his armrest and produced a large, square-shaped mirror. He raised this over his head and looked at his hair. "Damn!"

"I can help you with the hair coloring, but the whiteboard markers are in my office…" House offered too sweetly, but Gabe stuffed the mirror into the bag of popcorn and whipped out the remote control. The sofa lurched, turning a sharp 90 degrees to the right; Gabe, half of the giant bag of popcorn and the rest of the sofa disappeared behind the wall the sofa parked next to.

"Don't mind me!" Gabe yelled through the wall. The sofa began to move sideways away from the wall until the popcorn and the second visitor fully reappeared.

Making a sound of irritation, House leaned over the popcorn and held out his hand. "Gimme the remote and I'll drive, you lush!"

Gabe shifted away from House and turned the remote on him. Something yanked House to his side of the sofa and planted his back firmly on the cushioned surface. Incensed, House tried to pull away from the back of the sofa, but couldn't. He raised his right arm and started to stretch it towards Gabe.

"Just try it, Grumpy," Gabe snarled. Turning his head towards his captor, House saw him waving the remote from side-to-side.

House relented and lowered his right arm.

"Better," Gabe grumbled. He pressed a button and the sofa began to move forward through the tables and the people. "Gotta schedule to meet, and meet it we shall!"

"Where are you taking me?" House demanded as the sofa approached the beat-up wooden door.

* * *

House blinked rapidly as the bright light dimmed. The sofa was cruising down an unfamiliar hospital hallway, the cream-colored walls dotted along the way with Christmas wreaths. Looking around him, House found windows—and snow-free, late afternoon sunshine? 

"Ever visited Australia before, Dr. House?" Gabe asked cheerfully. A rustling sound distracted the two men. Looking down at the same time, it was discovered that Steve had decided to nose dive into the bag of popcorn.

"Rat-flavored—YUM," House said flippantly. "I take it we're in Victoria, huh?"

"Yep," Gabe replied. The sofa turned left at the corner of the nurse's station and moved forward. "Remember Dr. Chase signing up for leave three days before the start of December?"

House snorted. "How could I remember when he asked permission from _Cuddy_ behind my back? Curly left the country by the time I was told a day later."

"Did he tell you why he had to leave?" Gabe asked.

House shrugged. "Didn't even leave a post-it with Cameron. He's finally learned how to stop kissing my ass."

"Must be due to the right hook you dealt him when he tried to sell you his epiphany one time," Gabe said cautiously. "I could be wrong, but that's not how management deals with the employee's _Eureka_ moment."

House's mouth thinned at the reminder as the sofa stopped in front of room 1825. At the press of a button, the sofa turned right and went into the room.

On the bed was a little girl with shoulder-length dark blond hair. The sprinkling of freckles on her nose and cheeks were greatly enhanced by her paleness. Her rosebud mouth was a pale shade of violet. She's asleep at the moment; to House's trained eyes, the falling and rising of her chest didn't seem adequate to provide her with the necessary oxygen, even with the nasal cannula. The heart monitor on her left showed that her pulse was weak, but steady. On the other side of her bed, next to the night table piled with gaily wrapped packages, was a small white Christmas tree.

The sofa stopped moving when it was in line with the hospital bed. It shifted until its occupants were facing the sleeping patient. House saw the girl's chart stuck in its receptacle at the edge of the girl's bed and leaned forward—Gabe must have pressed the release button—to read it. When the name registered, he sat back and rubbed a hand on his stubble.

"Olivia Chase. This is either Chase's half-sister or his underaged girlfriend," he muttered. "But last I heard, the age of consent in Australia is the same everywhere except in some parts of Asia and Iceland and he's not _that_ stupid, so that means she's a relative. And by the looks of the equipment she's attached to, something is seriously wrong with her heart."

During House's monologue, Gabe shifted in his seat until he was completely facing his seatmate and crossed his arms. When House was finished, Gabe asked, "You didn't know he had a half-sister, didn't you?"

House shook his head. "I ought to sue him for leaving this tidbit out in his family history."

The door opened, and Chase entered the room. House's eyes widened at Chase's attire; the younger man was wearing a black t-shirt, jeans, and a pair of checkered sneakers. Apart from the sneakers, the intensivist dressed normally.

Chase went to the bed and picked up the girl's chart; the look on his face turned grim as his eyes beheld the chart's contents. With a hiss of frustration, Chase flipped the chart closed and dropped it back to its receptacle.

"Rob, is that you?" a weak voice emanated from the bed. Chase swiftly turned around to face the bed's occupant.

"I'm here, Libby," he said in a calm, soothing voice. He grabbed a chair near the Christmas tree and placed it near her left before sitting on it. He took the small hand that had lain limply on the bed and pressed it to his lips.

Libby's eyes were open—House had expected them to be of the same color as her brother's, but he was proven wrong when he saw that they were dark brown. She turned her head to look at Chase and smiled. "Happy Christmas, mate."

"Happy Christmas to you too, Libby," Chase replied. He looked behind him. "You haven't opened your presents yet?"

Libby shook her head. "I got sleepy," she said, looking down at the dark blue blanket covering her.

Chase frowned. "Charlotte told me what happened yesterday…"

"_Mum_ should've let you bunk in at our house," Libby whispered harshly, her small hand gripping her brother's tightly. She had noticed how Chase tensed up, looking at the heart monitor in alarm. Libby closed her eyes and sighed, leaning back onto her pillows.

"I'm sorry, Rob…"

"Listen," Chase cut in, stretching his right hand out to gently lift her dainty chin up. "I told you—I'm okay with staying at the seminary while I'm here. You know why I can't stay at your place…"

"I know," Libby grumbled. "But it's not fair. You don't come here to visit anymore since you got that job in the States. I have to get really sick for you to get your arse down here, and you won't stay at our house for the holidays. Is it 'cause Dad left you out in the will?"

Chase carefully released Libby's hand and placed it back on top of the bed. House caught a flash of bitterness on the handsome face before he turned to the night table and picked up all the gifts placed there.

"I'll tell you more one day, Libby," Chase said in a quiet tone, his face blank. "It's not something I want to discuss during this festive season. What say we open your presents, eh?"

"Especially about your boss?"

"Especially about my boss," Chase said in a serious voice.

Libby looked up, seeming to consider it.

"Oh, I want to be there when that happens," Gabe snickered. "If he's making up stories about Dr. Meanie House, I _really_ want to be there!"

"Shut up," House snarled, tossing several pieces of popcorn in Gabe's face.

When Libby turned her eyes to her older brother, Chase forced a cheerful smile and lifted up the packages. "I'll take these with me back to New Jersey—even the one that came from Calum Nichols," he threatened.

Libby rolled her eyes. "Give it here, you bully," she snarled, her voice becoming a little stronger.

Chase grinned, lowering the packages on her bed and sneaking up a glance at the heart monitor.

House stretched out his legs. "Trouble with the evil stepmother—oh, when will Chase ever meet up with his Miss Prince Charming?"

"You're all heart, Doc," Gabe said darkly, shaking his head. "I am curious: how would Libby develop this heart condition thing?"

"She'd have a defective heart from day one," House said curtly, watching as a bright-eyed Libby opened her presents with as much enthusiasm as a girl with her condition is able to summon up. "Depending on the severity of the case, Libby can live almost a normal life—with precautions—or live life inside a bubble."

Gabe expressed his newfound knowledge with an appreciative "Ah. Considering whom he's working with, and you calling him a kiss-ass, why didn't he ask you to review her case?"

"Because he knows I'd be bored with it," House replied. "And he'd already know that two things could save her: a heart bypass operation or a heart transplant. If the bypass wasn't an option, I'd say she's stuck on the donor list for a new ticker. If he didn't know that, I wouldn't have hired him."

House did get what Gabe was trying to say. Working at one of the best hospitals in the United States, Chase would be able to bring his little sister to PPTH and get a second opinion or better treatment. A heart transplant is virtually impossible due to the waiting list, but then again, Chase was working under a man who had the _blunt_ to make what he wants happen.

Since that thing with Vogler, Chase had been discovered and labeled as an opportunist. With his sister's life in the balance, it would be easy for him use his connection with House as a way of tipping the scales in her favor. Was Chase really that selfish, or was something or someone getting in his way?

House got his answer immediately.

"I've saved enough money to buy a plane ticket and visit you in New Jersey, Rob," Libby suddenly said. "I worked it out with Katt; she and Shannon can…"

"Olivia," Chase groaned, holding his head between his hands. "We've been through this—the plane trip alone might…" He tightened his hold on his blond hair.

"It _will_ work! Dr. Sallet prescribed me some new meds for my heart this month…"

"Libby…"

"I want to get away from her!" Libby began to cry. "You think Dad loved me more than you 'cause he was there more for me? No he didn't! If he loved me, he would've taken your suggestion that I get another opinion from your boss or some other cardiologist working at your hospital. But no—_Mum_ doesn't want me to travel. She's neurotic! She doesn't let me go anywhere unless its school or piano lessons. I'm a prisoner! I'm…"

The heart monitor began bleeping moments after Libby grabbed her chest, wincing and moaning in pain. Chase moved fast; he cleared the packages off her bed in one swipe of the arm and then he lowered Libby's bed until it was in the prone position. The nurses rushed into the room with the necessary equipment as Chase started yelling for a defibrillator.

As the sofa turned to face the door, Gabe said quietly, "Apparently, Dr. Chase is related to Rapunzel."

* * *

The bright light dimmed. The sofa was no longer moving on flat ground, it was now going up a darkened set of stairs. Raucous laughter and louder Christmas music wafted down at them, getting louder as the sofa made its way up. 

"We're back at Princeton," House said. "I know this place…"

"It's a few blocks from the hospital," Gabe cut in. When the sofa entered the brightly lit room at the top of the stairs, something caught House's eye. Turning to Gabe, he looked at the phantom critically and said loudly over the music, "You're graying again."

Gabe reached into the bag of popcorn and extracted the square-shaped mirror. One look into the glass made Gabe sigh. "It's almost over," he said dejectedly. "Have to make this one worthwhile—last stop before my shift ends." He dropped the mirror back into the bag, eliciting a squeak of protest from within. "Woah—sorry Stevie! My bad."

House glared at Gabe as he reached into the bag and extracted his piqued pet. One glance at the place made House pause and sit up straighter in his seat. "I was invited to this jamboree, but I had better things to do."

"What? Get drunk and smashed?" Gabe asked as some confetti rained through him.

"Better than talking to this mob," House replied, eyeing a buxom nurse's generous display in a low-cut, body-hugging purple dress. "I think she stole that outfit from Cuddy's closet."

The rented room at the pub that Chase, Foreman, and Cameron frequented was packed with a lot of nurses and doctors from PPTH. Like the nurse House leered at, several of them were wearing fancy party clothes. The rest of the throng looked like they haven't changed from their work clothes.

"They just got out of their shift," House yelled over the music as the sofa passed by the speakers, pumping out the music. "And I know who we're going to spy on tonight."

"And there they are!" Gabe shouted, pointing at a corner of the room where a small crowd was gathered.

* * *

_Almost there..._


	6. Chapter 3c

**The ghosts of Christmas crack 3c**

**Apologies for the tardiness in posting. I made sure this was worth the wait.**

**

* * *

**Peering in front of him, House found the backs of his remaining team members sitting around a coffee table. To be more precise, they—and around eight other hospital personnel—were leaning forward, shaking in silent laughter and looking on as a similarly amused woman with tinsel in her black hair and a piece of paper stuck on her forehead was staring at the crazy antics of a bespectacled resident. 

"Uh—Janet Jackson?" the nurse asked. The resident shook his head, putting a hand on his forehead. A woman standing near him handed over a glass of ruby-colored liquid, which he accepted gratefully.

Gabe pressed a few buttons on the remote; the phantom sofa moved until they were facing the real life sofa and the couple playing charades. The resident then sat on the edge of the coffee table, made to open an invisible car door, and swung his right leg wide.

"Damn it, George! I don't know any sumo wrestlers!" the nurse complained.

"Time's up!" a plump nurse called out, holding a wristwatch in her hand.

George stood up in a huff. His partner removed the paper from her forehead.

"Britney Spears?!"

"Yes, Britney Spears," George said in frustration, square glasses askew on his thin face. "I don't know any of her dances, and all I can recall about her are those pictures from 'Inside Edition' where she wasn't wearing any underpants. I can't believe you don't even remember that, Carol."

"Well, she certainly didn't raise her leg up like a dog about to piss on the fire hydrant, that's for sure," Carol sniped back, crumpling up the paper and tossing it in George's direction.

"Alrighty then," said the nurse with the watch. "Next up are Doctors Foreman and Cameron!"

The doctors looked sheepishly at each other. Foreman raised a closed fist. "Rock, paper, scissors?"

"Sure," Cameron muttered, raising a closed fist. They shook their hands three times.

Foreman swore softly when he saw that his rock was defeated by Cameron's paper. "Still don't get why paper beats rock," he grumbled.

"Get used to it," Cameron and phantom-House said at the same time. Gabe looked between Cameron and House, a small smile lighting up his broad face.

"What?" House muttered. "She's predictable!"

"O-kay, Doc," Gabe said good-naturedly. Too good-naturedly.

The stopwatch nurse handed out a bowl filled with folded paper to Cameron. Cameron put her hand in it and swirled the pieces around three times before holding one up. The nurse took the paper, removed the plastic off the double-backed tape and placed it on Cameron's forehead.

Cameron raised a delicate auburn eyebrow at the nurse; the nurse was trying—and obviously failing—to keep a straight face.

"That bad, huh?" Cameron asked dryly.

"Oh yeah," the nurse said between her teeth. Over Cameron's shoulder, Foreman stared at the nurse with his own eyebrow raised.

"If he's not careful, that would become permanent," House said softly, accepting the large mug of cocoa Gabe handed to him. Looking down at the steaming mug of liquid, House asked, "Where'd you get this?"

"Starbucks," Gabe answered.

"Riiight," House muttered, blowing on the mug before sipping carefully. "Good stuff."

Cameron had taken the chair in front of Foreman by this time. Foreman stared at his co-worker's forehead, and his eyes looked like they were about to pop from their sockets. "You really know how to pick 'em Cameron," Foreman muttered.

"Damn!"

House turned to his seatmate. "You bribed me with chocolate and made me miss seeing Cameron's paper!"

"Shut up and enjoy the show, Doc," Gabe said, sipping his cocoa with his left hand and aiming the silver remote at House with the other hand. House glared at the thing before turning his gaze back at the game.

Foreman raised two hands. Cameron said, "Two words."

The neurologist nodded, then pointed at himself. "A person?"

Foreman nodded—then breathed in deeply.

The doctors and nurses had already seen what was written on Cameron's paper and were hiding their smirks behind their glasses of wine.

Foreman began to lean on his right and hobbled back and forth. He stopped for a while to open an imaginary bottle of pills and popped two into his mouth, thrusting up his chin and swallowing dramatically. Then he leaned on his imaginary cane, looked at Cameron, and dropped his jaw. He made it bob up and down; the overall effect making him look like he was partially stunned and partially gagging.

"Dr. House?" Cameron ventured sardonically. "Gregory House."

"Yes!" Foreman shouted. The audience on and around the sofa—and Gabe—began clapping and laughing.

"How the hell did she manage to guess with his crappy acting?!" House cried indignantly. "I don't walk like I've got a permanent wedgie in my boxers."

"Gotta give him credit for getting the rest of you right, though," Gabe said admiringly, wiping tears from his eyes. "Even the last bit."

"Well, I've never choked on my Vicodin pills, so I have no idea how they attributed that to me," House scoffed, finishing off his cocoa in one scalding gulp. Gabe turned to House and eyed him speculatively as he quipped, "But that's not what Foreman was acting out, wasn't it?"

House stared back at Gabe with a cold, neutral expression on his face. Gabe stared back, fingering the silver remote on his right hand in lazy circles.

"No," House said in a strained voice.

"I'd like some more details," Gabe said, leaning over the bag of popcorn. Steve poked his head out and looked at the confrontation between the men.

"I'm not sure I—"

His leg began to ache.

"—remember all that much from the Oncology Benefit."

"I'll get back to you on that; looks like the little lady is doing some damage control," Gabe said, nodding in the direction of the heckling medical staff. House followed the direction of his gaze, rubbing the ache returning gradually to his bad leg.

* * *

"What was the last one about, Dr. Foreman?" George the resident asked loudly. He had drunk too much red wine and his nose, cheeks, and forehead were now stained similarly to what he imbibed. "Did House choke on something, or was he watching some heavy porn?" 

George's seatmates snorted into their wineglasses.

Foreman shrugged, still grinning like a Cheshire Cat. He plopped back down on the sofa next to Wendy the nurse, who placed her blond head on his shoulder. "He saw something that made him lose concentration for a while. We were all there."

He smiled; Cameron—still sitting on the chair—grinned like she found it just as funny and as painful.

Snuggling against George, Carol the nurse leaned over and tugged at Cameron's dark green sweater. "Didn't you go out on a date with Dr. House, Dr. Cameron? Did you guys get to _do it_?"

The entire room became silent. On the other side of the room, House was holding on the cushions of the sofa in a powerful, vise-like grip. Gabe leaned forward, staring at the action in front of him. Steve left the safety of the popcorn bag and scurried to the top of Gabe's head, holding on the whitened head for dear life.

But, Cameron rolled her eyes and said lightly, "We did, but nothing happened." She nodded towards Foreman and continued, "We did talk about work and the rest of the team—man, did we make fools out of ourselves in that restaurant! I'm not sure we—he'll be returning there after the racket we made."

The audience began to chuckle, looking slyly at Foreman. Wendy was giggling like crazy into his shoulder. Foreman glared at Cameron as she nonchalantly stood up and headed for the refreshments table.

House released the breath he'd been holding since Carol asked that incredibly nosy question. He noticed that Foreman had disentangled himself from his hysterical girlfriend to follow Cameron to the refreshments table.

"What are you, comatose?" House hissed at Gabe. "Follow them!—Ouch!"

Gabe swatted House with a leather-bound throw pillow before maneuvering the sofa to the refreshments table just as George was restraining Carol to the sofa, who nasally whined, "But I want to ask her if House also nailed his ex!"

* * *

Foreman followed Cameron from the refreshments table—she grabbed a bottle of beer from the table—to the 50's style jukebox on the other side of the room, far away from the charades area. Behind Foreman was the phantom sofa with its phantom occupants and a phantom bag of popcorn. 

Cameron stood in front of the jukebox and bent her head down over the selection. Her pose didn't fool Foreman in the slightest when he stood next to her.

"Ignorance really is bliss," Cameron said stuffily. She reached into the pocket of her jeans and pulled out a hanky to wipe her nose with. Turning to face Foreman, she continued in a low tone, "What a year, huh?

"What a year," Foreman parroted softly. He stood next to Cameron, also pretending to look at the selection of oldies. He placed a hesitant hand over her shoulder.

"Do you still have—you know—feelings for him?" Foreman whispered.

"Let me check—hmm—no," came the flat reply.

Behind them, Gabe went "Oooh" and House snorted.

Foreman seemed to be attuned to House's disbelief. "Uh—weren't you the one who invited House to this thing?"

"Moment of insanity," Cameron muttered. "I was pulling an overtime shift and didn't get my standard shot of caffeine." She bent over the jukebox until her smooth forehead touched the glass. "I was at my lowest then. You've got your ammo for future put-downs, happy now?"

Foreman shook his head. "No."

Cameron raised her head up from the jukebox to sip some of her beer before putting her forehead back on the glass partition. Foreman just looked in front of him.

"Some days, I wonder why I made myself return to work for House," Cameron mused against the glass, her beer-infused breath fogging it a bit. "You remember, after Vogler left with his cold hard cash?"

Foreman nodded. "You'd have been spared from getting lethal doses of his witty personality and his charming ways. Now look what happened: thanks to that thing with Tritter, he hasn't spoken to Wilson, Chase has been doing everything to get reassigned in the hospital, I'm the butt of most of his jokes because I'm dating a white woman, and you've gone from sweet and caring to sour and pickled."

"I'm _not_ pickled," Cameron said thickly, raising herself up again to take another swig of beer. "I'm—I'm—_not sober_."

She looked up at Foreman and they both laughed.

"Its House's fault," Foreman said, placing a quarter into the jukebox and selecting a Ray Charles song.

"Well, he does some good—even with that attitude," Cameron mused, turning to flatten her left cheek on the jukebox and look up at the man beside her. "He turned into a royal asshole when the ketamine thing wore off and he went back to using his cane and popping his Vicodin."

"So, what was he before?" Foreman asked. "Just your regular, run-of-the-mill asshole? Listen, one of the attending in that Hartman case overheard House and Cuddy arguing in the shower room. What he said—I'm surprised Cuddy hadn't fired him then."

Cameron stood up at attention. "What did he say to Cuddy?"

Foreman shrugged. "Nurse didn't get all of it—something about it being a good thing Cuddy didn't become a mom, because she sucks at it."

"'Didn't become a mom'? What a sec—that crack about Tritter being one of Cuddy's sperm donors…"

Cameron and Foreman looked at each other, seeing the other's shock mirrored perfectly. House slapped a palm against his forehead.

"You are in _so much trouble_!" Gabe hissed in glee. He grabbed the leather-covered pillow and leaned as far away from House as possible.

"Do dead men feel pain if they get kicked in the nads? I wonder…" House snarled.

"Wow," Foreman said, rubbing his forehead with his hand. "That was _low_."

"Yeah," Cameron said, using her hanky to wipe off the fug from the jukebox. "He was detoxing then, right? We were all afraid to write him a scrip for his pain medication because of Tritter."

"I can't believe you."

"What? I only said…"

"After everything that happened, you still defend his ass! You still love him!"

"See this bottle? I can give you a concussion with this," Cameron said frostily. Foreman backed away, holding up his hands and fighting not to laugh.

"Go Cameron!" House called out. "Fight for my honor!"

Gabe and Steve McQueen snorted beside him.

"Okay—peace! It's Christmas time—peace on earth and all the love," Foreman chided her. "I'm going to collect Wendy and leave—need a lift home?"

"Nope," Cameron replied, peering back down into the jukebox. "I'll call a cab; I'm good."

"Merry Christmas, Cam," Foreman said, patting her on the shoulder.

"You too, Foreman."

When Foreman left, Cameron reached into her pocket for a quarter. After slipping the coin in the slot, the pretty brunette made her selection. She stepped back from the jukebox as the chords of Dean Martin's rendition of "Baby Its Cold Outside" replaced Ray Charles' music. A couple of catcalls resounded from the other side of the room.

"Merry Christmas," Cameron whispered before she finished off the rest of her beer.

Before House could stop himself, he found himself answering back: "You too, Cameron."

"Sweet," Gabe said mockingly. "Time to move on our merry way, Doc."

* * *

It took House an inkling to realize that something was off. For one thing, the sofa moved past the door of the bar and moved fast in the direction of PPTH. 

"What happened to the flashy lights, Gabe?" he asked. "Special effects problems?"

"No," Gabe muttered. Turning to Gabe, House saw that the other man's hair was now completely white.

"Change of plans, Dr. House," Gabe said, almost apologetically, as the sofa approached the covered parking lot of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. "It's almost 1:00 AM—the other guy's waiting for you here."

"Other guy?"

The sofa parked itself near a pillar. Gabe pressed something on the remote that sent House jumping out of his seat. Gabe plucked Steve out of his hair and handed the rat over to a mystified House.

"The third visitor is going to meet you here. Hope you've digested your food well."

With that, Gabe and the sofa began to fly up, up, and away, fading from House's sight.

* * *

_Comments are much appreciated. Care to guess who's the third visitor?_


	7. Chapter 4

**The ghosts of Christmas crack 4**

No sooner had Gabe and his sofa disappeared around the corner that a heavy hand suddenly clamped down on House's right shoulder. House jumped forward in reaction; Steve scampered to settle on his human's head just as his human made a hasty 360-degree turn to glare at the third visitor.

"Let me guess," House said dryly. "Darth Vader, I presume?"

For House, it was quite an ordinary reaction upon seeing a stranger of medium height wearing a long black cloak. The hood covered the upper half of the stranger's face—what House was able to see looked like it was covered in a shiny back scarf. There was no visible reaction to House's wisecrack; with a twirl of the cloak, the visitor makes way for the entrance to the hospital.

House opted to run for home, but something made him follow the cloaked stranger, who opened the glass-paned entrance into the hospital and gestured for him to step inside.

--

"Well, this is a shocker," House said derisively as he stepped into the reception area of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. "Nothing's changed here—same boring hospital. I want my money back!"

House looked behind him expectantly, but no such luck—the cloaked visitor gave nothing away. What he—House would have to guess that the new tour guide was a male for now—did was to raise a gloved hand to the direction of the elevators. Right on cue, the doors opened and two familiar men stepped out.

House jerked his head up in surprise; Steve squeaked as he momentarily lost a foothold on his owner's head, scrambling to reposition himself on a shoulder.

"Foreman and Chase really let themselves go," House remarked as Foreman passed him. The neurologist was clean-shaven and bald; his smart white shirt and black slacks were now three sizes bigger in order to accommodate the extra thirty or so pounds of fat he had accumulated. The slim, prematurely graying blond intensivist was dressed in a black shirt and faded blue jeans. Chase's hair was cut shorter and he was now sporting a moustache—somehow, the graying and the facial hair added to his appeal, if the fawning brunette receptionist behind the counter wasn't proof enough.

The two men stopped at the reception area as Chase knelt down to tie the shoelaces of his trainers; Foreman placed his suitcase on the floor and started to put on his coat, beret and scarf.

"Weird day, huh?" Foreman asked softly.

"Yeah," Chase replied gruffly. He seemed very intent on his shoelaces.

"Hey, you wanna have dinner with Wendy and me? She making her famous—"

"No thanks, Foreman. I'm good."

Foreman looked concerned.

"You can't beat yourself up about Olivia, Chase—not after five years. Even if you were there, you wouldn't have been able to do anything. Do you think she wants you to live the rest of your life beating yourself up about her death?"

Chase suddenly stood up, hissing in Foreman's face: "How the hell would you know what she wants?"

Chase grabbed his bags from the floor and strode briskly out of the hospital. Foreman ran a hand over his smooth head. "Nice going, Eric," he muttered to himself, shaking his head before he put his gray beret on it.

"Five years," House whispered as Foreman strode through the automatic doors of PPTH. The cloaked guide took him by the elbow and led him to the elevators.

--

"So, Foreman's fat and married, and Chase is turning into an Australian version of myself," House said aloud during the ride to the fourth floor. "I knew he was angsty the moment I saw his handlebar moustache. Remind me to sue him for stealing my look the moment he starts using a cane."

_Ping!_

"We're here—thanks for the stimulating conversation, Darth."

House followed "Darth" out of the elevator and into the hallway. They passed a familiar glass-walled room, but—

"_What the hell?!_"

The Department of Diagnostics conference room was—not a conference room anymore. The glass partition was painted with sunflowers and daisies and dark green hillocks. Over the acrylic-painted scenery, House could see bright blue carpeting, miniature plastic houses, rocking horses, three television sets connected to three Playstation consoles and two children running around inside.

House turned to his guide, eyes flared wide in a combustible mix of shock, horror and outrage.

"_Cuddy turned it into a daycare center?!_"

The visitor nodded.

"Wait'll I get my hands on—"

"Brian, Zoey, your mommy's here," a perky voice called out. It didn't break House from his tirade, but the husky voice calling out "Hi babies!" did.

House turned around and saw Cuddy walking towards him from the other side of the hallway. She was wearing a bright red sweater and tight-fitting jeans—nothing in her figure suggested that she was the one who gave birth to the adorable, dark-and-curly haired toddlers running towards her.

Cuddy knelt down and opened her arms, engulfing her children in a tight embrace. "Had fun?" she asked them after placing a kiss on each child's cheek.

"Yup!" Zoey said brightly. "Claudia and Brian and me played with Blues Clues and played chef and cops n' robbers and then you came!"

"What she said," Brian said solemnly. "Are we goin' home now?"

"Yes we are," Cuddy said, matching her young son's tone. A brief look of gloom settled on her face, which disappeared immediately. "We're going to pick up Grandma Louise from the airport and spend Hanukah with Uncle Matt and Aunt Ruth at their place. Sounds good?"

The twins squealed in delight all the way to the elevators. It was only when the squealing died down that House broke his silence.

"Did she breastfeed them?" House asked "Darth". "Darth" shrugged before walking back towards the elevators.

--

The elevator doors opened just as House was finishing his monologue.

"—so you see, it would be really cool to find out if people noticed that this elevator was in use by other forces when no one else is using it."

As House and "Darth" stepped out of the elevator, the elevator next to them opened as well. Drs. Cameron and Wilson stepped out of it, walking briskly ahead of the phantoms.

"Cameron—and Wilson?" House said softly. Without any prompting from the guide, House ran up the familiar-looking hallway until he was behind them.

Cameron had cut her hair short; it barely reached her slim shoulders, and House could see some strands of gray through the rich dark auburn tresses. She was holding a box wrapped gaily in red and white. Wilson was walking strangely; House wondered why his lab coat was a bit long in the sleeves, reaching up to cover half his hands when his arms were down.

And he was walking stiffly, like—

"Are you okay, Wilson?" a concerned Dr. Cameron asked. Wilson nodded and said curtly, "Slipped on some ice on the pavement—nothing terminal."

Cameron and House went "Hmmm."

"Are they in there with him?" Cameron asked.

"They left to get some air. I told them we'd be coming around and watch over him until they get back," Wilson said. He raised his right hand to rub his left wrist in soothing motions.

"What happened to your wrist?" Cameron asked.

"Oh—uh, the new leather strap of my watch, it gave me a rash," Wilson replied furtively. "I'm going to give the repair place a piece of my mind after the holidays. I got a cream for it, no worries."

The two doctors and phantom stopped in front of room 710.

"Ready?" Wilson asked.

Cameron nodded. She reached out and took Wilson's hand into hers. The action made the sleeve hitch up, uncovering a small part of Wilson's wrist.

"Wilson, Wilson, Wilson," House chided behind them, wincing as he beheld the small section of rope-burned wrist on his friend. "When did you start swinging that way?"

A snort of amusement suddenly exploded behind him. Half-expecting a psychiatric patient loose on the floor, House raised a sardonic brow when he found no-one else behind him but "Darth". "Darth" had cut off his snorting, but his shoulders were still shaking in amusement.

"So, you do have a sick sense of humor," House said snidely. "Somebody get the champagne, quick."

"Darth" kept on shaking in silent mirth.

"Or we'll wait for the New Year's visitor. I'm not pushy."

Cameron opened the door and entered room 710. Wilson, House and "Darth" followed her inside.

House had not been able to peek through the glass walls of room 722 since the vertical blinds were drawn, but when he stepped into the room, he suddenly realized why the hallway was niggling at the back of his mind.

This was the floor—the area, whatever—where he'd been confined after he was shot.

And room 710 just happened to be the ICU.

A feeling of dread settled heavily in the pit of House's stomach as he followed Cameron and Wilson. Wilson blocked his view of the lone patient lying on the bed in the farthest end of the room. Cameron stood on the other side of the bed—the red and white wrapping paper was lying in a small crumpled heap on the end of the bed, between the feet of the mystery patient.

House had a feeling that the patient wasn't so mysterious. He didn't want to pass Wilson and confront the prone individual on the bed, connected to an oxygen tank and assorted medical equipment that were beeping softly, monitoring the patient's vitals. He turned around and was about to walk towards the door when an invisible force started to push him towards the bed.

"I don't want to see—I know who that patient is…" House cried out. He planted his slippered feet on the floor of the room, but it wasn't enough to stop him from involuntarily moving towards the bed.

"Darth" began to laugh hysterically as he began to remove the black scarf from his face.

"I DON'T WANT TO KNOW MY FUTURE, GODDAMMIT!" House yelled.

From the corner of his eye, House could see Wilson's back. The oncologist was oblivious to the hysterical phantoms behind him, looking on as Cameron opened the lid of the unwrapped box. The invisible force began to twist House until he was facing the silent figure lying on the bed.

It was him—Gregory House, lying battered and broken in the intensive care unit of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital in a Christmas yet-to-come.

"When are they—who's going to––?" Cameron whispered haltingly. She could not complete her query; she decided to take out the red tie from the box she brought with her and laid it next to House's limp right hand.

"Tonight," Wilson said quietly. "I'm going to pull the plug after Mr. and Mrs. House arrive from their walk."

"Oh God," Cameron choked out. She placed a trembling hand across her face to stop her sobs from coming out. Wilson moved around the bed and placed comforting arms around the young woman. Cameron moved her head into Wilson's ready shoulder and broke down.

Meanwhile, phantom-House turned his head at his guide, who was now laughing like a deranged hyena.

"Shut up! Who the hell are you anyway?!" House yelled.

"Darth" threw back his head, making the hood fall back. House's rage ebbed slightly as he looked into the ruddy face of Joe Luria, the police officer who was brought laughing into PPTH and died screaming in pain.

House swore under his breath.

"WHAT A HOOT, EH, DR. HOUSE?!" Joe screamed hysterically, laughing maniacally. "WHILE YOU CONSIDER WHAT YOU'VE PUSHED AWAY, ALLOW ME TO GIVE YOU THE ULTIMATE IN EXPERIENCING YOUR FUTURE—_TODAY_!!!"

With that, Joe jumped behind House and pushed him towards his near-lifeless body, making him scream all the way as Joe continued his psychotic laughing…

--

"_ARRRRRRRRRRRGH!!!_"

House sat up straight in his bed, his heart pumping frantically as he gasped in lungfuls of air. When a large hand was placed on his back, he thought he was about to have a stroke.

"Easy there, boy!" a familiar deep voice said lightly, sending House scrambling to the far edge of his bed until he ended up tumbling on the floor. "You might want to cut down on the coffee, eat some more greens—I thought my worthless brother-in-law paid for your tuition in med school?"

A hearty chuckle followed this query. House carefully reached up and pulled himself to a sitting position, peering at the newcomer over his rumpled blanket.

"Uncle George?!"

"The same," the older man said jovially, rubbing Steve McQueen behind the ears as the rat nibbled on a cracker. He was as House always remembered him: sporting outrageous, graying sideburns and dressed in dark blue jeans, a red checkered shirt and a brown belt. "Get your ass back on this bed and talk to me like a grown man—you're acting like you've seen a ghost."

"Ha, ha, ha—very funny," House said curtly as he hoisted himself up carefully on his bed. Uncle George looked at his grown nephew from head to toe, shaking his head as House reached over and picked up his bottle of Vicodin, taking out two to dry-swallow.

"You letting that white stuff rule your life, boy?" Uncle George asked sternly.

"Well, it keeps the pain away, helps me to function and heal people," House replied, swallowing a bit more saliva to help ease the two pills down their path. "You wouldn't want a doctor who's in pain to treat you, would you?"

"Guess not," Uncle George admitted. He placed Steve on the bed before continuing, "But neither do I want a crackhead for a nephew."

"OUCH."

"It's true, and don't deny it. Just because you're a doctor doesn't mean you're smarter than me, brat."

House just grunted in reply. Uncle George snorted and cuffed his nephew gently on his bewhiskered chin.

"Missed you, brat."

"Missed you too, Uncle George," House replied, and he meant it. Uncle George smiled briefly before turning serious. He reached into his back pocket and produced a folded piece of white paper, which he proceeded to unfold.

"You've been on quite a trip these past few hours," Uncle George began. "The first two are quite solid, but the third isn't set in stone yet. I don't have to tell you that it means it _might not_ come true, but that doesn't mean it won't happen. It _can_."

"So, why are you here? Are you going to try to turn me into Cameron?" House asked brusquely.

"Don't sass me boy."

"Sorry—force of habit. I blame Cuddy."

"Don't lie to me either," Uncle George said. "But, because you're my favorite sister's only child, I have to do what I can, spare her as much as possible from heartache that you might make in that particular future. So, here."

Uncle George handed over the white paper to House. House took it and read the following:

_A Personal Guide_

_Rehabilitation_

_Turn around_

House looked up at his Uncle in confusion.

"You get to choose," Uncle George explained. "_Personal Guide_ is someone who's going to help you for the rest of your life."

"My own Jiminy Cricket?" House asked skeptically. "I think I've got Wilson covering that."

"Really? After how you treated him these past few weeks?" Uncle George said wryly.

"Right," House replied, rubbing his forehead like he'd had a headache. "The _Rehabilitation_?"

"Let's say we call this a 'Christmas miracle' and leave it at that?" Uncle George said in a mysterious tone of voice.

"And the _Turn around_?"

"You get to go back at a certain point in your life and try to make things go better from there."

"And what if I don't choose?"

"Much as I'm tempted to choose for your own good, I'm afraid that the future presented to you by Mr. Luria—what is he, Italian?—will be quite definite," Uncle George said gruffly. "I could also haunt you and make you do crazy things until you see reason."

"No thanks, Uncle George," House said. "I'll pick something from here."

"Good."

Uncle George reached into his other back pocket and produced a silver pencil. "Cross out your choice, then give the paper back to me."

House accepted the pencil, laid the paper flat on his good knee, and considered the options presented to him for a minute. He crossed a line on his choice, folded the paper up and returned it to his uncle.

"Am I going to regret it?" House asked.

Uncle George smiled. "I know you, son. You'll do better."

House smiled back, and settled himself back down on his bed.

"Merry Christmas, Uncle George."

"Merry Christmas, brat."

* * *

_Coming soon: the alternative epilogues. Happy Holidays!!!_


	8. Ep1 A Personal Guide

**The first of three alternative epilogues.

* * *

**

_**A Personal Guide**_

House's alarm clock pealed promptly at 9:30 AM in the morning.

"Wake up, sunshine!" a British voice trilled in his right ear. "It's Christmas day! Wakey-wakey!"

"Whozzat?" House mumbled, still half-asleep, figments of the bizarre night still embedded in his frazzled mind.

Something clicked, and the alarm clock stopped pealing.

"You're personal guide, Dr. House," the British voice said brightly straight into House's right ear. "I figured that it's going to take all day to plan a return to your friend Wilson's good graces and come up with a wickedly exceptional strategy to trump that card Tritter in your trial."

How odd that his "guide" seemed to be tickling his earlobe…

With a start, House became fully awake and turned his head slowly to the right—and beheld Steve McQueen sitting all prim and proper on House's pillow.

"_Steve?!_"

"Right-o!" Steve said brightly, sitting up straighter and twitching his whiskers.

"_You're_ my personal guide?!" House's voice was getting louder by the second. He jumped out of his bed and landed on his hands on the floor. A small weight pressed on his buttocks and skittered up on his back to his shoulder.

"Are you all right, Dr. House?" Steve asked into House's left ear.

House leaned his head forward and groaned, wondering if Uncle George would kill him outright if he gave Steve a fatal, cane-shaped blow to the head.

**Fin**


	9. Ep2 Rehabilitation

**The second of three alternative epilogues.

* * *

**

_**Rehabilitation**_

_Middle of 2007_

Dr. House paced nervously up and down in the small room. He occasionally paused to check his watch, after which he would make a sound of irritation before continuing his legwork around the room.

Dr. Wilson sat calmly on a chair in front of an impressive mahogany desk. He had become bored of his friend's continuous pacing and opted to read his copy of Reader's Digest over and over again.

"You do realize you're wearing your cane out," Wilson said dryly.

"I can't help it," House snapped. "If I don't walk it enough, it'll eat up the carpet."

"Is that the best you can do, House?" Wilson shook his head, bemused. "You're really keyed up, aren't you?"

"Easy for you to say," House snapped. "I didn't have the good fortune of doing this several times like some people I know. It's a first for me."

Wilson grinned and went back to reading the "Laughter is the Best Medicine" portion of Reader's Digest.

House took this opportunity to gaze at Wilson's exposed and welt-free wrists before he resumed pacing. Ever since he had that crazy dream—or whatever it is that you'd call it—he couldn't help himself as he took several opportunities to make sure that his friend hadn't become or is showing signs of being a masochist.

That worry aside, it wasn't the upcoming event today that was making House pace. Well, sure, it was a primary concern that was making him edgy. It was just that it had been seven months to the day since he had received word about Tritter's untimely demise…

God, he was turning maudlin.

--

He had been at home nursing a scotch in his birthday suit when Cuddy called his place.

"_Leave me alone, or you'll get a rabid rat in your mailbox._" **Beep!**

"Real cute, House," Cuddy said dryly. "Just got word from ER—they've admitted Detective Michael Tritter an hour ago…"

House listened as Cuddy related how Tritter's car had been rear ended by an inebriated teenager coming home from a frat party. Though the damage to the vehicle wasn't severe and Tritter was wearing a seatbelt at the time, it seemed that it was enough to surprise Tritter into choking on his nicotine gum.

"…the frat boys didn't do anything but _watch_, they were so stoned and _stupid_..."

Michael Tritter died of asphyxiation on the way to the hospital. House smiled grimly and carefully walked back to bed.

No one could say he hadn't warned the big lug about the dangers of nicotine gum.

A slim, naked brunette was waiting for him under the covers, accepting the extra glass of Scotch from her lover before he settled himself on his side of the bed.

"Bad news?" Cameron asked, sipping some of the strong liquor.

"Depends on who you ask," House said lightly as he switched off the light. "Game for round two?"

--

_Today_

"Sorry, we're late!"

House abruptly stopped pacing like an edgy tiger to stare at the vision in a cream-colored gown framed under the doorway of the Judge's suite.

"What took you so long?" House asked gruffly as Cameron walked slowly towards her soon-to-be husband.

"You do realize that making me pregnant will also mean that I get morning sickness?" Cameron replied dryly. "I thought you were a doctor?"

"And as such, I know of ways of enjoying our honeymoon without giving you and Junior any complications," House shot back in a low growl, prompting a giggle from his glowing bride. Wilson rolled his eyes behind the Reader's Digest he was holding up his face.

"Do you think we should've invited the department heads to witness this wedding properly?" Cuddy asked as she walked up to Wilson. "I don't think two people are enough to take this all in."

Wilson looked up at Cuddy, resplendent in a tight-fitting electric blue dress, and then at Cameron, who was having her slightly rounded stomach rubbed by her enamored fiancé. "If we did, he might chicken out and take Cameron to Vegas."

"Hmm…you have a point," Cuddy said thoughtfully as the Justice of the Peace strode resolutely into the room and asked exactly who was getting married to whom.

All four doctors in the room raised their hands, grinning from ear to ear.

**Fin**


	10. Ep3 Turn Around

**The third of three epilogues._

* * *

_ **

_**Turn Around**_

_House accepted the pencil, laid the paper flat on his good knee, and considered the options presented to him for a minute. He crossed a line on his choice, _wrote something next to it_, folded the paper up and returned it to his uncle._

"_Am I going to regret it?" House asked._

_Uncle George smiled. "I know you, son. You'll do better."_

_House smiled back, and settled himself back down on his bed._

"_Merry Christmas, Uncle George."_

"_Merry Christmas, brat."_

--

House limped away from Cuddy's office, wondering how the hell the woman had talked him into it.

One would think that, since he had been brought back to this point in time, House would have avoided this unpleasantness from happening, but he was always a sucker for pain…

--

Just as Dr. Robert Chase was heading for the parking lot…

"Chase."

Chase whirled around and found himself face-to-face with his boss, who was holding a thick envelope in his hand.

"Read this, get your pretty head working out the details into Aussie, and call your sister's idi—uh—doctor back in Vickyland," House said gruffly. "Tell your wicked stepmother Rapunzel has to transfer to another tower with better facilities in another part of Wombatland."

"Victoria?" Chase parroted lamely. "How'd you know--?"

"Just do it, Curly," House butted in. He turned around, leaving the younger man dumbfounded in the middle of the parking lot. "By the way—this conversation? Never happened."

Chase simply looked at the file in his hand, not looking up when a motorcycle roared to life and sped out of the lot.

--

House approached the apartment door, where the beat of some crazy pop song was pounding against the walls of the room. He faced the door, planted his feet and cane firmly on the floor, took a deep breath—and knocked sharply on the door.

A sexily disheveled Alison Cameron opened the door. She paused when she beheld her visitor, but then she recovered and smiled dreamily up at her boss.

House smiled his best ladykiller smile at the minx before letting her grab the lapels of his jacket and reel him in.

**Fin.**

**Happy Holidays, folks!**


End file.
